


capacity

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 06:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10985172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: It’s funny, how completely and utterly different things are from before; how, before, the pressure of his hand on her mouth had been like a slap in the face that she felt down all the way into her bones, into a part of her soul that she didn’t realize had any more capacity to feel anything. That, she thought at the time, was really the end of it, the end of her feeling things.





	capacity

**Author's Note:**

> please have a small akiramon inspired by tg:re:121 //// note that i've never actually been to a love hotel so those details are probably inaccurate, haha.
> 
> and, i hope you’re doing well recently. ☀

It’s funny, how completely and utterly different things are from before; how, before, the pressure of his hand on her mouth had been like a slap in the face that she felt down all the way into her bones, into a part of her soul that she didn’t realize had any more capacity to feel anything. _That,_ she thought at the time, was really the end of it, the end of her feeling things.

 _No,_ she realized later, standing again in front of the graves. _It’s not._

 _No,_ she realized again, facing Haise’s smile and feeling her mouth twist up in return. _No,_ she realized again, feeling the stab of knives in her back. _No,_ she realized again, as her eyes fell on a figure who filled up an entire doorway. _No_ , in a warm embrace, against a small, soft body. _No, no, no,_ again, again, and yet another time, as he draws back a millimeter to breathe, and then places his mouth again, gently, on hers.

:::

This is how much things have changed:

Once upon a time, she was a person who once thought to herself, _I would never be caught dead heading to a love hotel (for a non-ghoul-related issue)._ Once upon a time, she just hadn’t been the type. Any person she might be intimate with was also someone who should be able to bear the comfort of her own apartment, disuse and dust and Maris Stella and all.

And now.

No apartment to retreat to. No other shelter from prying eyes, or ears, or noses. And no patience.

Their coordination seems to be the one thing left unchanged. Her suitcase rattles on the pavement, conspicuous. They don’t plan it aloud, but they wander, wordlessly, slowly, side-by-side, until they find a place with a receptionist that doesn’t give them a double-take and, thankfully, doesn’t take their names either. There’s no elevator, and Amon steps aside to allow her up the stairs first, watching her wavering climb, resting a hand on her back when her toe catches on the top step. Akira fumbles for the key, which for a moment she thinks she might have lost in the mere ten minutes they’ve spent separated from the lobby, despite the fact that she has no purse, no coat, no pockets. The door opens, revealing a room that’s even smaller and emptier than that in her own apartment, and seems smaller still when Amon follows after her and seems to take up half the space just by existing.

_Well…no._

Maybe it’s not so much mass as it is nerves. The door closes and for an instant takes her breath with it. Amon faces her, and sets his hand on her face.

No kings, no missions. No cats, no uniforms, no briefcases. No graves. No ghouls — she glances at him — sort of. No dense medicine in her veins, or alcohol.

“No push-ups,” Akira murmurs, and Amon snorts and makes a small, small smile, just a sliver, like the amount of dessert a child might steal from the counter, like the kind that she once thought she might never see from him again. A sin. A miracle.

“Not any on the floor, anyway,” he replies, and then he grimaces, because it takes her too long to get it, and even then her incredulity at him making a joke like that prevents her from doing anything more than staring at him with disbelief. Finally, though, she laughs, and he laughs, too, and then they are both laughing, and then she starts to sob.

:::

That’s how he reaches for her — through tears — his mouth opening and his lips pressing gently against every streak, patient, his hands cradling her head and his thumbs stroking the soft skin beside her brows until her trembling becomes urgent. They make it to the bed, somehow, and her suitcase handle smacks the floor as it falls onto its back, and they both ignore it.

She has some questions, somewhere, about how his body has changed, probably. But the fact of the matter is that the weight and warmth of him on her is every bit as dizzying as she’d let herself imagine, which happened only on nights when she sprawled sideways on her bed with empty beer cans were lined up messily on the floor. Just as she’d done then, her hand slips across her belly, and lower. But this time her fingers meet something hard, and this time her moan isn’t the only one in the room.

She strokes him, just a little, but the noise he makes is loud, and much rougher than any she ever imagined he’d make. He sucks, fervently, any centimeter of her throat that he can reach; his teeth nibble on her ears, her collarbone, with such enthusiasm that she wouldn’t be surprised to see blood, and wouldn’t be disappointed by it either. She feels her numbed body starting to flare again under the crush and clutch of him, like a flower yielding fragrance between pinched fingers. She feels her spirit again, starting to want.

“Amon,” she breathes, roughly, “ _Amon_ ,” and his grip tightens, hers does too. Her nails rake his impermeable skin, at first without care, and then with a fierce relish. A seam, somewhere, pops. Her legs raise, crooked, almost kneeing him; he straightens and lifts her ankles to rest on his shoulders and then does a stunningly precise job of divesting her of every article of clothing. Her skin bumps and prickles and flushes against the cold and the heat both. When she is freed, they switch; Akira tips him sloppily over as he works at his belt, and sweeps a hand indulgently beneath the fabric of his clothing to stake him out before dragging and inverting his shirt over his upraised arms. The rest of it, they unbuckle and kick off the sheets.

For a moment then, in the millimeters and the breath between them, the years swell, pushing them apart. She sees his ruptured and mismatched flesh, and she knows that he sees her own body too, having only barely accomplished the arduous task of its own existence, and withered from the effort. Amon’s hand reaches, and loosens her hair, and touches her face.

“Is it okay?” he asks.

 _No,_ she thinks. _Probably not._

It’s stupid, irresponsible, selfish. Once upon a time, she was a person who had once thought to herself, _I despise him;_ and, _I’ll kiss him._ Once upon a time, she was as sure of the things she wanted as she was of the things she hated. Now her emotions are so thoroughly mixed that they are less a sludge than they are a fog: vague, insubstantial, definable but beyond reach. It’s just as was always said. She can’t feel anything, anymore.

Amon’s hands caress her, pulling her gaze back to his, which is gentle, searching.

“Is it okay?” he asks again. At her silence, he hesitates, and then his mouth opens. His voice is a low murmur.

“A…Akira.”

 _No,_ she realizes, again.

And she answers, “Yes.”


End file.
